19 May 1536 The End Of A Rivalry
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: Mary watches Anne die on the scaffold. Movie Based


**A Sister's Last Moments**

I stood there, quiet, scarcely daring to breathe, as Anne, my sister, my older, raven-haired, captivating sister, mounted the steps of the scaffold. My daughter Catherine, or Cate, as we sometimes knew her, followed behind her with the rest of her ladies, dressed in sombre colours, as befitted the occasion.

She gave me a little smile as she went past me, and I nodded stiffly. Unlike her, I had the reassurance that King Henry would spare my sister. He'd given me his word. Hadn't he? Of course he had. He was just making her go through this to teach her a lesson that she'd never forget. Wasn't he?

Anne turned to her priest; received a blessing. Then she turned to the executioner as he knelt before her, asking forgiveness for what he was about to do. Anne nodded, raising her hand to forgive him, before walking forward to the edge of the platform. The crowd around me, which had been hissing and jeering, suddenly fell silent as Anne's lips parted, so she spoke even her first words into an unexpected silence.

"Good People. My Good people."

Her eyes roved the crowds as she continued. "I die here today because it will please your King. It is a death I justly deserve for I have not shown him the humility that his goodness to me merited. I confess to having had jealous fancies and suspicions and to not having had the wisdom to conceal them…"

Anne continued to speak, but my concentration was broken by two soldiers pushing roughly past me, merely greeting me as "My Lady."

I turned to scold them – could they not leave me alone, today of all days, but, without another word, one of them thrust a scroll of heavy parchment into my hand, and then they were gone.

I glanced down at the parchment I was holding. It bore the royal seal. Feeling a shiver of anticipation, even in these circumstances, and hating myself for it, I broke the wax and unrolled the missive. My eyes scanned every line of royal blue ink, taking in every word. It was almost as though the King himself was talking to me. I could hear his voice – my Henry's voice - in the boldly penned letters.

"_Mary,_

_You risked your life in coming to Court and were only spared because of my respect and affection for you. You are advised not to do so again. You will not be shown the same clemency a second time. _

_May God Bless you – and my son."_

I smiled. Though Henry had never openly acknowledged my boy, his namesake, as his own, he was his son and this letter proved that he knew that, no matter what. Suddenly Anne's voice broke into my reverie. "…Yet Mary Boleyn, my golden sister, is the one who has to suffer the agony of having to watch her brother and sister die. I implore you, show her your pity, not me. I deserve my fate. She does not deserve hers."

My eyes flashed up towards the scaffold. What was Anne talking about? She wasn't going to die. Henry was going to spare her. He'd practically given me his word. But then, with a second glance at the piece of parchment I held, I realised that there was another line of writing – one I had earlier overlooked. It was just nine simple words, but they sent shivers of foreboding down my spine.

"_And may God have mercy on Anne's soul. Henry."_

I dropped the piece of paper. I didn't need to know any more. It had all been in vain. My mad ride to Court after my brother's death, my fervent appeal at King Henry's feet. None of it had done any good. It hadn't saved Anne's life. She was still condemned to die before my eyes.

Despite myself, my eyes tried to avert themselves from the spectacle in front of them. _"NO Mary. You cannot look away. This is your sister." _That thought drumming in my head, I forced myself to watch as Anne sank to her knees before the block. No spread-eagled position for her; not for the one who had been so French in life. She was to die as befitted a Frenchwoman, kneeling upright to await the swing of the sword.

My daughter Catherine stepped forward, offering Anne the relative peace and security of a blindfold, but my sister waved it away, shaking her head just slightly.

"Bring me my sword!" The executioner's voice cut through the deadly quiet and Anne turned as his assistant moved just out of her line of vision. Her eyes, roving the crowd, caught mine.

We stared into each other's gaze, my honey brown into her black, and some unseen power compelled us to keep looking. Neither of us could look away, even if we'd wanted to. We just stared and stared, each of us trying to commit the other to memory.

And then it was over. With a single flash of bright steel, coldly hard in the May sun, the sword found its target and Anne's head, her quicksilver, beautiful, ebony head, parted company from her neck in a violent gush of scarlet blood.

Anne's decapitated body slumped, and I slumped with her. Falling to my knees, all I could think was _"It's over. It's over. I can take Catherine home. It's over. Over." _

For it was over. All over. Anne's life was over, the Boleyn's time at the centre of the Court was over, and our rivalry, the bitter rivalry over who would prove to be the better sister, the better daughter, the better Boleyn girl, was over too.


End file.
